


Apology

by Hours_Gone_By



Series: Trope Bingo Round Twelve [12]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Camp Nanowrimo, Gen, Guilt, Post-Episode: s02e04 Attack of the Autobots, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reaction, Trope Bingo Round 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 08:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18735445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hours_Gone_By/pseuds/Hours_Gone_By
Summary: After the events of 'Attack of the Autobots' two of the affected try to come to terms with what happened.





	Apology

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Camp NaNoWriMo April 2019 and [Trope Bingo](https://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org) [Round 12](https://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/tag/round+twelve). Prompt: Mind Control
> 
> The look on Ratchet's face in this episode when he realizes what he almost did right before Jazz slapped the [attitude exchanger](https://tfwiki.net/wiki/Attitude_exchanger) on him has haunted me for nearly thirty-five years, people.
> 
> Doctor Harding doesn't have a canonical first name so far as I can tell. 'Patricia' was a popular name during the [1940s](https://www.ssa.gov/oact/babynames/decades/names1940s.html) and [1950s](https://www.ssa.gov/oact/babynames/decades/names1950s.html), decades that would match up to potential birth dates for someone who's reached Doctor Harding's stage of their career in the mid-1980s.

Starting in 1984 anyone working in the field of experimental energy development had been warned about the possibility of Decepticon attack. Doctor Patricia Harding was one of those researchers, working diligently at making her solar energy satellite a reality. Like a lot of her fellow scientists she'd attended the briefings, read the memos, and taken part in the drills. Like a lot of people and trouble, she'd never really thought it would happen to her, until the day it did.

Briefings and memos and drills were one thing. Getting chased by _giant red-eyed robots_ and having to jump out the window of your own office, then hide in a dumpster that got punted around like a soccer ball were something else. That was _before_ the big white-and-red one – Ratchet, she'd learned later – had nearly crushed her trying to get the plans for her satellite. The Autobot she'd found out afterwards was named Jazz had shown up just in time to save her from what she had been sure was certain death.

Things had been too busy after that for her to really stop and think about what had happened. Adrenaline and the long-held habit of not breaking down in public had carried her through the rest of the day, and the elation over _her satellite_ getting into orbit to produce much-needed energy carried Patricia along for another one. Then, realization over what had nearly happened – getting killed, and by an _Autobot_ no less – crashed in on her.

Patricia got a couple of days paid leave once everything had calmed down and cleanup had begun.  It was 'strongly recommended' that she take them and, well, her workplace was a wreck anyway. Her enforced days off bumped up against a weekend and she spent the time alternately curled up with a pint of ice cream, or aggressively gardening, while trying to come to terms with _nearly dying_. Oh, sure, she'd made an appointment with a therapist, but that was a few days away. She had to figure out how to handle this enough to get herself through until then. It wasn't easy, like dealing with more normal problems like getting dumped. (The Great Breakup of '71 had just been a matter of spending a few days with ice cream, wine, tears, and tissues.) That part of it made sense, at least. She was pretty sure that 'nearly got killed by giant alien robots' wasn't the kind of thing most humans could honestly consider themselves ready to handle. 'Nearly got killed by giant alien robots under the mind control of _other_ alien robots' even less so.

 _Maybe they'll name the psych disorder after me_ , she thought. Indulging in gallows humour was another outcome of the Great Breakup. It worked as well as the ice cream and wine, and she didn't need to wash dishes afterwards. _Forget engineering and providing power, 'almost but not quite killed by possessed Autobots' can be my legacy._

But you could only spend so long at home before you had to get back to work. She'd run out of ice cream and weeds anyway. Patricia had other projects on the go, and she couldn't ignore them – didn't dare ignore them. You got some sympathy and understanding for the whole 'almost killed' thing but things still piled up. Project deadlines waited for no one, and the people holding the purse strings tended not to be big on prolonged sympathy.

Well. If anything was late, it was late. If anyone complained, then they could try relieving the day _she'd_ had the day of the launch and see how they liked it.

Going back into the office wasn't as difficult as she'd expected it might be. Some kind soul in Administration had moved her workspace to a different location in the building. Figuring out where everything was now, seeing if anything was missing, and sorting it all out to her exact specifications and preferences had distracted her nicely from any lingering anxiety. The new location, in an older section of the building, was visually different from her last space and that helped too.

Doctor Harding still took to working from a spot where she could see the windows and the doors, and where she had an escape route either way. That patio umbrella breaking her fall instead of collapsing under the weight of a person dropping on it had been sheer goddamn luck. Now, she was still on the second floor, but there was a fire escape right outside her window. She hoped she'd never need it but knowing it was there just in case was enough. Sometimes, something would bang or clang nearby, and her heart rate would jump. When that happened, she'd pause to do the breathing exercises she'd gotten from her therapist and look over at the fire escape for reassurance.

Renovations were going on nearby, so there was a week where that happened a lot. That was how she noticed the ambulance.

The first time she saw it, she didn't think anything of it. She hadn't heard sirens, but if the street was clear, it might not have used one coming in. If the patient wasn't too severely injured, they might not use one heading out.

The second time she saw it she wondered, but there _was_ a lot of machinery and chemicals and electronics in use around here, and injuries weren't unknown. Two days in a row was a bit odd but not improbable.

The third time she saw it, she was looking for it. She watched it, carefully, out of the corner of her eye and a strategically placed mirror on one of the worktables: no driver, no paramedics, and no insignia from a local hospital.

Not an ambulance, then. Just someone who looked like one.

The fourth time she saw it she heavily debated going out and saying something. She still saw the looming white form, the enormous gray hand, in her nightmares, heard the voice demanding her plans. Talking to the Autobot might help. It might not. She didn't know.

Doctor Patricia Harding wasn't one to waffle for long, if at all. There was only one way to find out, and she squared her shoulders and took it.

The ambulance – the Autobot – didn't move as she marched out of the door and crossed the street.

"All right then," she addressed the driver's side door, firmly ignoring how she felt a little ridiculous talking to, so far as anyone else knew, an ambulance. "I'm guessing you came here to talk. So let's talk."

There was a brief silence. It managed to be hesitant. Then the door swung open.

* * *

Ratchet hadn't expected to see Doctor Harding at all, and not up close. He'd come to sit outside the building and debate contacting her while remaining unseen. He hadn't meant for her to see him – he hadn't known they'd moved her lab over to this side of the complex. The first two visits he'd not noticed her, too caught up in his thoughts and memories to look up. It was on the third that motion in the second-floor window had attracted his sensors and he'd realized. He shouldn't have come back after that, he knew. He didn't even really have a way to contact her, aside from transforming and speaking through the window. Even if he could figure out which phone line was hers, tapping into the primitive communications system and calling her sounded easier than it was: his systems had about as much in common with telephone wire as telephone wire had with banging a rock on another rock.

Ratchet didn't need a degree in human psychology to know that that was a bad idea.

Still, he'd come back again anyway. He hadn't expected her to confront him, but he also couldn't really say it was a surprise. His memory of her stammering out a terrified refusal to hand over the satellite plans as he reached down with murderous intent was _crystal_ clear.

It had been a long, _long_ war and Ratchet had never been afraid to pick up a weapon and do what needed to be done. He'd certainly killed before. Still, there was a difference between shooting a Decepticon to preserve Autobot lives, or even easing a mortally wounded patient into the Matrix, and…that.

Primus, he'd almost _killed_ the human. The human who was civilian, vulnerable, defenceless: everything Ratchet had always told himself he would protect, no matter what, no matter who.

It didn't matter that he'd done it under Decepticon control. It didn't matter that he hadn't been _himself_ , almost literally, when it had happened. He had the memories, and he had the guilt. He'd nearly had the blood on his hands, and Doctor Harding had realized it. He'd seen it in her face. So, he _really_ wasn't expecting her to approach him and speak to him.

"Alright then," she said, hands on her hips, standing next to his driver's side door. "I'm guessing you came here to talk. So let's talk."

Ratchet hesitated for a few nano-kliks. Then, he opened his door, and Doctor Harding climbed in.

There were a few more seconds of awkward silence.

"I-I suppose you might as well drive," she said stiffly. "It will look strange if I'm just sitting here in an ambulance."

"All right." Ratchet started his engine, pulled out into traffic.

"So, care to tell me why you've been sitting outside my office all day every few days?" Patricia asked, arms folded. She stared out the window, probably not sure where to look.

"I'm a doctor," Ratchet began. "I've fought when I've had to, but I do my best to save lives, not – " The concepts were easier to express in Cybertronian, where you could add meaningful subharmonics to your words. Ratchet could, technically, add those subharmonics to English but Doctor Harding wouldn't be able to interpret them, making it pointless.

"They told me you were under the control of a 'personality destabilizer,' whatever that means. I know you weren't exactly in control, when…well."

"When I nearly terminated you," Ratchet said bluntly.

Doctor Harding shivered and drew in on herself. "Yes."

"You're displaying symptoms of anxiety," Ratchet observed, noting her reaction. "Do you need to stop and get out?"

She pulled her lab coat more tightly around her torso, even though Ratchet had made sure his interior was at a comfortable temperature for humans. "No. No, I'll be fine. Just…if you're looking for forgiveness I'm going to tell you up front, I'm not there."

"That's not – " Ratchet stopped himself. "I don't expect forgiveness."

Forgiveness was something humans put a lot more emphasis on than Cybertronians did, anyway. Ratchet wasn't sure where the value was in declaring you forgave someone who hadn't even acknowledged the wrong they'd done to, but humans seemed to do it a lot.

"Well, I suppose," though it was a grudging admittance, intellectual knowledge warring with memory and emotion, "it wasn't actually your fault."

"That doesn't help when I remember it."

"No," she agreed, and he thought she suppressed another shiver. "So, do you have nightmares about it too? If you don't mind me asking."

"Yes," Ratchet said briefly.

"And you've been showing up outside my workplace because you want to, what? Apologize?"

"Yes," Ratchet said again. "But I didn't know if you'd want to hear it."

"Hm." Harding fell silent for nearly a klik. "I don't know either. I don't know that I actually…actually _blame_ you. Not when I think about it rationally."

Ratchet had an idea of how that felt. He knew his actions had been a result of Decepticon interference. It wasn't something he'd ever had done if they hadn't sabotaged the recharging chambers. It didn't stop the way he _felt_ about his actions as a result of said interference.

"If human responses to traumatic events are similar to Cybertronian," and they might be, parallel evolution had resulted in several similarities, "thinking about this rationally may not be your default reaction."

"Hah!" For some reason, she relaxed, letting her coat fall open again. "You've got that right." Doctor Harding seemed to think for a moment. "Alright. Like I said, I don't know if I want to hear an apology. Hell, I don't even know if I think you _should_ apologize to me, or if it'd make me feel better at all. I think it might be something you need to do to feel better though. I just – if you're – Ah!" She rubbed her face, heedless of her hands leaving oils on the lenses of her glasses. Chip had the same type of marks on his glasses a lot of the time. "Can you not, I mean, I – "

It took a couple of nano-kliks to work that out but if her nightmares were anything like his… "You want me to stay in vehicle mode," he guessed.

Doctor Harding winced. "That's probably an awful thing to say, isn't it?"

"Given the circumstances, I understand." Ratchet had nightmares about looking down; she must have them about looking _up_. A face-to-faceplate apology attempt might end up going badly.

"Maybe someday," she tried to assure one, or maybe both, of them, "but just not right now."

"That's alright." She brushed a piece of hair out of her face. "Well, I don't think this is going to get much easier, so…whenever you're ready."

Ratchet turned a corner, heading back toward her workplace. Things weren't going to get any less awkward, and she would probably want to leave as soon as possible. This certainly wasn't making Ratchet any more comfortable.

This time, just for himself, he included the appropriate subharmonics when he spoke. Doctor Harding couldn't interpret them, but he could.

"Doctor Harding," he said formally, hoping just his words and tone would be enough, "for my actions on the day of the satellite launch, and the danger I put you in, I most sincerely apologize."

In Cybertronian he would have said 'the harm I caused you,' and the word and the subharmonics would have indicated he meant psychological harm. But humans always seemed to think of harm as solely physical damage, which she had not incurred. Ratchet didn't want her to believe he was giving her a rote apology, able to interpret subharmonics or not.

"Thanks," she said quietly. "Please take me back now."

"Of course."

The drive back was short and quiet. Ratchet let the human out at the same building entrance she'd used earlier.

"Do you feel better?" Doctor Harding asked, pausing on the sidewalk.

"I'm not sure yet," Ratchet confessed.

"Well." She wasn't looking at him. "Neither am I. I-I hope it works out for you. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Doctor Harding."

* * *

"Everything alright, Pat?" one of her coworkers asked as she walked through the small lobby at the rear of the building. "You look…" they trailed off.

Patricia managed a smile she hoped wasn't too shaky. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Thank you. Just a little something unexpected."

"Will you be okay? Do you need anything?"

Well, there was a question more loaded than her coworker knew. Patricia shook her head. "No, no thank you. I'm just trying to work a few things out." And would be for a while. Today was going to make for a hell of a therapy session, that was certain.

* * *

Optimus drew even with Ratchet as he drove along the road leading to the Ark.

"Did your errand go well today, Ratchet?" Prime asked.

"It didn't go badly." Ratchet still wasn't sure how to define his encounter with Doctor Harding.

"How do you feel?"

"I'm not sure," Ratchet admitted. "But, I think I'll be alright."


End file.
